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Friday, March 31, 2006

I'm 31 and feel like I'm beyond milestones. I'm at the age where society tends to expect me to have reached certain markers of "true" adulthood. The marriage, house, real career, kids ideal that most people have of a capitol 'A' adult. I haven't hit any of those. Some because I don't want them. Some because I procrastinate. Others because I spent all of my 20s making very little money and saving none of it.

I never gave any thought to what I'd be like as an adult when I was a kid. Mostly I just wanted to get away from the little nuts I went to grade school with. Then, since most of them followed me to high school, I just wanted to graduate. When I was in college all I could think about was getting out of school once and for all. I gave no honest thought to post-collegiate plans. Not where I would live, who I would date, or how I would dress. Not even where I would work. I wanted to move on, but had no idea to what.

I was seriously depressed and unmedicated through most of my pre-teen to early adult years. All I ever envisioned for my future was one where I was finally happy. I thought that if by some miracle I could sustain some joy in living that everything else would fall into place. So I made no plans, held out no hopes. Just in case happy never came.

My catch-22? I'm mostly happy now (thank you Effexor), but the plans I failed to make all those years ago are haunting me. I have $5,000 in credit card debit, no savings, a job I hate, interest in an industry that's hellishly hard to break into, a paycheck that barely covers my bills, an interest in buying a house next year without much real hope of making it happen and fear coming out of my ass like water.

Once you become a real live grown-up the only milestones left are the ones you create on your own timetable. That's one of the cool things about finally being one of "the big people". The crappy thing is that nobody is obligated to make decisions on your behalf. Primary equation: adulthood=it's all your fault.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

A strange thing happened last Friday. It was late, probably after midnight. Me and my bald boy were watching a movie and stuffing our faces with hot, hot pizza. The drama was intense, the cheese was gooey, our fingers messy. A lull in the action facilitated our hearing something odd. Birds. Not just one kind either, but several. These strange species were singing, chirping and crowing at night.

What the hell. Every night since then, there they are. Listen...hear that? Where did these demon spawn aviary come from? What the shit kind of birds sing during the darkest hours of the night? What are they up to in those trees out there? More importantly, should I be worried? Are they planning a takeover? See, this is what happens to me when random strange things occur that I can't get away from. My mind takes odd detours from the realm of real possibility. I daydream, fantasize, create macabre situations that I honestly pray will never come to pass.

Please, if there is any justice in the universe, the crazy-birds will stop interrupting my late-night puttering with...what the hell ever they're doing. It's hard to concentrate on Conan, uh, I mean (something constructive like) writing my screenplay, when I'm thinking up ways to escape a terrorist bird attack.

Damn. I should probably just be going to sleep as soon as I get home to skip the whole thing. Including the screenplay avoidance.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

I'll admit it, I like it now, but two weeks ago it was terrorfying. Not to sound like too much of a girl, but it actually made me cry. It wasn't those child-like hiccup sobs that cut off oxygen, but I cried nonetheless. Damn him for not warning me!

I should have known, I suppose, that something was up. My boy told me he was going to shave and cut his hair (which I assumed meant trim). I occupied myself by playing with flickr, but noticed that it was taking a long, long, loooooong time. Much more so than usual. Then I heard him, all sweet-voiced and innocent-like, behind me, "Honey?" I turned and quickly regretted it, "Oh God!" I spun around in the chair and buried my face in my hands to hide the horror that was now his head.

I recovered enough to wander into the scene of the crime. His bathroom sink was covered with a towel that held all his hair in several thick tufts. My face fell. The evidence was real and could not be denied. My boy was bald. Symptomatic of my photographic addiction, I grabbed the camera from my purse and captured it as a way to try to adjust to the newness. It didn't work. I got sadder and sadder. After a few minutes I couldn't take looking at it anymore. I sat too close to the computer screen. I closed my eyes. I cried.

"One day you're not going to have any hair left and you'll be sorry you did this!" "Oh, honey."

I screamed at him. He answered by drawing out the 'e' in honey to soothe me. This did not help.

"It's only hair. It'll grow back. In a couple months it'll be right back where it was."

I miss his chicken hair. Standing straight up on his cute little lightbulb shaped head. I could run my fingers through it. Shuffle it around. Muss it and mold it into odd formations. The stubble feels sorta like velvet, but that's a small consolation.